


An Odd Pairing To Be Certain

by DirectToVideo



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fundraisers, M/M, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectToVideo/pseuds/DirectToVideo
Summary: After a sudden (and completely inconvenient) break-up, Eliot needs to find a roommate, stat. Thankfully, Margo may know the perfect floppy-haired, hapless nerd for the job.An Odd Couple-esque story for the @notalonehere fundraiser!
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	An Odd Pairing To Be Certain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldfiredragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/gifts).



> Thank you to @coldfiredragon for your patience while I wrote this story. I hope you and everyone else enjoys it!

Eliot was screwed. He was screwed, he was so, so screwed. Mike had left - _was not_ _coming back-_ and taken his half of the rent with him, the bastard. The handsome, devil may care, blonde, pleasantly masculine smelling bastard, with a smile like Ewan McGregor and those eyes that crinkled…

 _Whatever_ , it didn’t matter. It’d been _fine_ and totally worth repressing. Eliot refused to let Mike McCormick take up any more space than necessary, thank you very much. He’d never needed anybody - _Bambi excluded-_ and would continue to live in that vein until he died...alone and celibate, with no beautiful widower to keen at his grave.

_Again...Whatever._

If Mike were even the least bit considerate, he wouldn’t have stormed off without at least finding a subleaser. But then again, when people storm off, they’re generally just thinking of themselves. _So,_ with minimal options and the first of the month looming, Eliot had called Bambi. 

“Mike left,” he sighed despite himself because, _again_ , he was fine, “I need to find someone to replace him pronto.” 

“Are you that desperate to get laid?” Margo asked, “Cuz, if you’re not picky, I know a guy.” 

“Gah. No, Margo! I need a _roommate_. Preferably not one I’m inclined to sleep with.” 

“Oh, honey, I can’t work with that.” 

“Rude.” 

“Fine, I’ll see what I can do. Gimme a few days, and I’ll get back to you. There’s gotta be an uggo in this city that needs an apartment.”

“Thank you, Bambi. You’ve saved me once again. What would I do without you?” 

“Probably flop around like a carp on a clipboard. And, you’re going to need to search too. I’m not gonna be stuck with the heavy lifting.” 

“Of course. I wouldn’t think of letting you do all the work.”

“...Right.” 

Three days later, Eliot, having done fuck all in his half of the search, Bambi gave him a call. 

“I think I found a guy,” Margo said as if she were a bookie with a hot tip, “He’s from my book club and needs to get out of his lease.” 

“Your _nerd_ book club?” Eliot asked.

Margo huffed, on the other end, obviously already exhausted, “Do you need a roommate or not?” 

“Yes, fine. Alright.” 

“Good. His name is Quentin Coldwater, and he’s not that cute.”

“ _Quentin Coldwater?”_

“I set up an interview. You’re going to meet him for coffee at Blue Java tomorrow at 7. I’ll text you the address.”

“An interview, really?”

“Look, don’t be a dick. Just make sure he isn’t an ax-murder.” 

“Wouldn’t you know that already?”

“We talk about _books_ , El. Murder doesn’t come up. And anyway, he babbles like you put a quarter in him if you bring up fantasy. But otherwise, he’s field mouse quiet.” 

“Sounds ideal… Do you think he could actually be an ax murder?”

“Fuck, how would I know? He seems nice enough. A little high strung maybe. I just want you to be safe, okay? I don’t want to hear about your unsolved murder on the next episode of _Serial.”_

“I’ll be careful, Bambi.” 

“Oh, and I left out the part about you being desperate. So try to show some restraint.” Then Bambi hung up. 

\---

Quentin Coldwater, -- _What kind of name was that anyway?_ \-- didn’t seem like an ax-murder, just a high-strung nerd who stammered like he was being paid by the half-mumbled word. What mattered was that he appeared as desperate as Eliot, though Quentin wore his in full view of the world. 

“My friend, uh, Jules, she’s leaving the country to go study abroad, a-and her parents’ sort of own the apartment and they felt it wasn’t appropriate, you know, for me to, uh, stay there while she was gone. I dunno, well, I don’t think they, um, like me enough for me to, you know, try and...so, yeah.” Quentin spluttered.

“Well, it’s good we found each other, hmm?” Eliot purred, being his most charming. 

What Bambi had not fulfilled on her end of the bargain, and who knows she may not have noticed, was how cute Quentin was. If Eliot were in a different position (or various positions), he would have had a bullet-pointed itinerary on how he would take this boy apart and slowly put him back together. 

The two talked all afternoon _._ Quentin was currently a graduate student at Columbia, working on his thesis in philosophy, which, admittedly, wasn’t great for the job market. His dad probably would have wanted him to go into finance or something, but it just doesn’t feel right, you know? He mostly kept to himself but was known to hang out in shared spaces if he needed socialization through, you know, osmosis. Thanks to his workload, he would be out of the apartment from dawn until dusk, and was that okay? 

Eliot assured him, everything was ideal. He worked nights as a bartender and slept during the day, so the less Quentin could be in the apartment at that time, the better. As for philosophy, it sounded like a noble pursuit, so why worry about the job market or what dad thought? Also, Eliot had the occasional party, so if that was the type of osmosis Quentin was seeking out, he could deliver. 

By the end, each had seemed satisfied that the arrangement would work. Quentin would move within the next two weeks and owe Eliot his half of the rent by the first of the month. Eliot would repay Quentin by providing a stable place to live while resisting the urge to actively seduce the boy. 

\---

The day of the move, Quentin had roped Julia into helping him schelp his shit to Brooklyn from their old place. They had packed her parent’s Escalade to the gills and were driving towards the apartment. 

“You know, it’s really nice of you to help.” Q told her, from the passenger seat, “But I have the feeling you’re doing it under false pretenses.”

“I just feel bad about my parents bailing on you,” Julia replied, clicking on her turn signal from behind the wheel.

“Oh, right.” Q rolled his eyes, “So this had nothing to do with the text I sent about moving in with a sex-god?” 

“Of course not,” Julia smirked. When they reached Eliot’s (or should he say _his_?) apartment, Julia popped the trunk, and the two started unloading. 

“Don’t say anything about the text, okay?” Q told her as he tussled with a box. 

“I promise nothing,” Julia grinned from under a massive trash bag full of clothing.

Three flights of stairs later, Q and Julia reached the apartment door. 

“Did he give you a key?” She asked. 

“Technically, I don’t live here yet.” Q huffed. 

“Fucking knock then,” She gave him a playful nudge. Q swallowed thickly and did as he was told. 

The door swung open to reveal Eliot in a silk robe and little else. “You’re here, excellent. Hi, I’m Eliot,” sticking out his hand to Julia. “The best friend, I presume?” 

“Yeah, that’s me.” She shifted under the trash bag and shook his hand, “Nice to meet you.” 

“And you have your things, good. I’ll show you your room. Follow me.” Eliot turned on his heel and walked into the apartment. 

_Holy shit!_ Julia mouthed, _sex-god!_

 _Jesus Christ, stop!_ Q mouthed back. 

“I assume you have a bed with you?” Eliot asked when they reached Q’s new bedroom.

“What?” Q stammered, having a sex-god in a silk robe talk so casually about a bed sent a flush through him, “I mean, yeah. It’s, um downstairs.” 

“You want to help us move it?” Julia said, biting back a snicker, “Many hands make light work, right Q _?”_

_He could fucking kill her._

_“Q?_ ” Eliot’s mouth quirked slightly.

“It’s uh, w-what my friends call me,” _God, why couldn’t he quit stammering_?

“Q it is then,” Eliot said, flashing a devilish grin, sending Julia into giggles.

\---

After moving in, Eliot found that Quentin hadn’t been joking about keeping to himself. He mostly stayed in his room, though the door was always open. Despite rarely seeing the boy, there was one minor problem: he could still be easily located via his never-ending trail of shit. Books, clothes, and take-out boxes littered the apartment, amassing near Q’s door. Inside his room was worse, it was as if Quentin _had never heard of a hanger._ The perfectly good closet at his disposal was just a massive nest of discarded...everything. Eliot had sworn slightly under his breath when, dropping an armful of laundry left in the living room, he found that the real reason Q never closed the bedroom door was all thanks to the _piles._

_So. Many. Piles._

About a month in, Eliot noticed Q had begun closing his door. At first, he was grateful, thinking that Quentin had finally gotten Eliot’s _notes, borderline snide comments, and other numerous passive-aggressive attempts_ to clean up his shit. But then Q stopped _coming out_ _of his room._ During the day _,_ Eliot could hear Q verbally berating himself through the wall that divided their bedrooms. Though he was concerned, he didn’t know anything about grad school, it could have been stress coupled with a typical school break. However, when the boy stopped showering and eating, Eliot decided it was time to intervene. 

A few days later, Eliot finally saw Quentin emerge from his cave, looking like utter shit. His lovely brown eyes were sunken and bruised. His hair hung rope-like in his face, and, at the risk of sounding cruel, he _reeked._ Q barely glanced at him as he crossed the living room toward the kitchen. Eliot watched quietly, as Q opened the fridge door and sighed. 

“What happened to my milk?” he mumbled grumpily. 

“I’m afraid it turned into cheese,” Eliot answered, “I had to throw it out before it grew legs.” 

“Whatever.” Q grumbled again, “It would’ve been fine.” 

“You can’t pay your half of the rent if you poison yourself.” Eliot quipped.

“I guess that’s all I’m good for, right?” he snapped, “Just my half of the rent.” 

“Q, I didn’t mean it like that,” Eliot replied. Q was being a brat, but Eliot knew, somehow, it didn’t have anything to do with the rent or the milk. 

Quentin sighed again, “I know. I’m sorry.” He had retrieved his cereal from the top of the fridge and was eating handfuls straight from the box. 

“How about I make us dinner tonight?” Eliot asked, “I’ve been craving spaghetti, what do you think?” 

“I guess.” Quentin shrugged. 

As it turned out, the spaghetti was just what Q needed to come out of his shell. Well, that, _and_ the generous portions of wine that Eliot kept pouring him, turning the boy into a chatterbox. 

“This is good,” Quentin slurred slightly, “Wha’d you say it was again?”

“It’s a seven-year Sangiovese,” Eliot said as he poured a third glass, “we serve it at the bar, but it usually turns to vinegar since our clientele are _philistines._ So, from time to time, I swipe a bottle.” 

_“I’m_ drinking stolen goods?” Quentin said, sniggering. 

“That you are, dear Q.” 

“S’good...I can taste the theft.” He sloshed his glass around, mockingly smelling the bouquet, “It’s got notes of five-finger discounts, ‘n stuff.” 

“Can I assume you’re feeling better?” 

“I’m sorry about b’fore.” Quentin replied gloomily,” Sometimes my brain breaks an’ I just, you know, kinda can’t handle shit...like ev’rything.” He stared into his wine glass, “I didn’ wanna tell you ‘cuz I was worried you wouldn’ lemme move in here, and I really needed a place to live.” 

“We all got our shit,” Eliot told him, pouring himself the last of the bottle. 

“How d’you know s’ much about wine?” Q asked with a snort. 

Eliot sighed, “I once had starry-eyed aspirations to become a sommelier. Alas, it was not to be.” 

“I think you’d be a good sammy-lay,” Q said with a flush, “You know stuff about wine ‘n stuff. Sorry’m so uncultured... this’s tasty wine ‘n that s’all I got.” 

“An astute observation, Coldwater. It is tasty. And, anyway, cultured or not, I’m glad you’re here. You are a _vast improvement_ from the last guy I lived with.” 

Eliot told Q all about Mike, _the bastard,_ and the fight that blew up in his face. He had thought that Mike was cheating on him for months, but when confrontation time came, Mike denied it and stormed out. Since _it was sharing time_ , Quentin told him _everything_ : his brain breaks, institutionalization, his work at Columbia, and meeting Bambi at their nerd book club. The latter was the most talked about by far. Once he got started on fantasy, it was just like winding his ass up and watching him go...which, honestly, was sexy as Hell. 

As Q babbled on, Eliot found himself _even more_ smitten by the little nerd than previously thought. His honesty and unapologetic enthusiasm were like catnip. Eliot found himself wanting to do things _for_ him, not just _to_ him. Quentin Coldwater was too precious for this world, moody as he was. Honestly, it was one of the great tragedies of the century that Eliot was pretty damn certain he was straight as an arrow. 

From that night on, Eliot found himself waking up, throwing on his silk robe, and then cooking breakfast before Q came home. It was downright domestic, accomplished by the mere sacrifice of just a few hours of sleep. It wasn’t as if it was affecting his work, -- _it was_ \-- or that his manager noticed -- _she did--._ Besides, Eliot could catch up on that shit when he was dead. 

It was apparent that Q’s broken brain was pulling all his strings. When he walked through the door, he’d drop his stuff and then shuffle off to his room. But not before Eliot had shoved a plate of food into his hands. Usually, there wouldn’t be even a hint of acknowledgment, Q, too in his head to handle anything about the world outside. But, sometimes -- _the best times, tbh_ \-- there would be a mumbled thanks, which would send a shameless thrill straight through Eliot. 

As the weeks passed, something lifted in Quentin. Eliot -- _who had been watching him like a hawk with a stalking fetish_ \-- noticed Q hanging out in the kitchen while he cooked. At first, the boy wouldn’t say anything, just sat at the breakfast bar and watched, but as the day’s passed, Quentin, the human hermit crab, began to come out of his shell. 

“What’s that?” He’d asked, pointing at the simmering red sauce in Eliot’s cast iron pan, “Are you making spaghetti again?” 

“It’s called shakshuka,” Eliot replied, covering the pan, “an Israeli breakfast dish. Trust me, it’s divine.” 

“Everything you make is divine.” 

“Really?” Eliot said, wagging his eyebrows, “Anything else divine about me?” 

“Um, I mean, uh,” Q stammered. The question obviously having been outside of his heteronormative wheelhouse. “You’re robe?” 

“My robe.” 

“Yeah, you know, that silk one you wear all the time.”

“I gathered.”

“I, uh, really like it? I mean, you know, um, when you answered the door on move-in day... It’s, uh, elegant, I guess?” 

“Elegant isn’t exactly divine, but I’ll take it. You can borrow it sometime if you want.” Eliot quipped, reaching for the cayenne pepper, “Wear it to campus even, bet your students would love that.” 

“That’s not what I-” Q said, deflating slightly, “I mean, I don’t think I could pull it off.” 

Eliot gave a hum as he cracked the eggs into the pan, covering it again, “Offer stands in any event.” 

A few days later, Mike came to the bar while Eliot was working. Upon seeing him, Eliot had half a mind to throw him out. It was a Tuesday, so he was the only one on shift, and the bar was empty, save for a few regulars. If he threw his ass to the curb, no one would rat him out for it. 

“Hey, El.” Mike said quietly, “Can we talk?” 

“What’s there to talk about?” Eliot told him. 

“I made a mistake. I’m sorry I abandoned you. And, well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking-” Mike looked up at him with gorgeous blue eyes, “I want you back.” 

“Really?” Eliot said, trying to keep his resolve. _Fun Fact:_ It wasn’t working.

“Yeah, I want to try again. Fresh start.” Mike smiled, “Can we do that?” 

All the anger drained from Eliot, how on earth could he say no? There wasn’t any malice left for him to say no with. The handsome, devil may care, blonde, pleasantly masculine smelling Mike McCormick, with a smile like Ewan McGregor and those eyes that crinkled, wanted him back. And Quentin was definitely off the table possibility-wise. _So..._

“Okay,” Eliot said.

\---

Routines had always helped Quentin stay in control. Whether Eliot knew that or not wasn’t necessary, it was the fact that he had created one, entirely on his own and out of the goodness of his _ridiculously attractive_ heart, that was extraordinary. Honestly, it must have been because Eliot, like everyone else, realized early on that Quentin Coldwater was incapable of taking care of himself. Q knew full well what a burden he was, and how much worse it got when he spiraled. Eliot Waugh was utterly out of his league -- _fuck he wasn’t even in Quentin’s orbit--_ and only did anything for him _because he felt bad._

The morning Q woke up to an empty apartment, only further proved his point. At first, he thought that Eliot had finally realized what a worthless sack of shit Q actually was and had given up on making breakfast in favor of sleeping in. Honestly, why wouldn’t he? But when Eliot came stumbling through the door and flopped on the couch, giggling and flushed, Q’s inner demons were put in check. 

“Mike came by the bar,” Eliot said with a sigh, “We made up, and it was glorious.” 

“Mike? The ass-” Q cut himself off, “um, guy, you used to date?” 

Eliot sighed again, “He apologized for everything. Said that he was wrong, can you believe it?” 

“Then, you told him to get lost, right?” Q asked.

Eliot sat up and stared at him, “Why would I have done that?” 

“Did-didn’t you say he cheated on you?”

“No. I said that I _thought_ he cheated on me.” Eliot said, brushing the comment aside, “Turns out I was wrong.”

“Why? Because he said so?”

“Why is this such a big deal to you? I thought you would be happy.”

“Well, uh, you told me all that stuff about him,” Q averted his eyes, “and, uh, I mean, Margo might have mentioned him, a bit, at, you know, book club? She said he sounded kind, of, I dunno, manipulative?” 

“ _Bambi_ told you that?” Eliot huffed, “Jesus. Well, she never got the full story, honestly.” 

“Oh.” Quentin rolled his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“ _Nothing.”_ He huffed. 

Eliot glared at Q for a moment, but then his face smoothed into a mask of cool impassiveness. 

“Well, I’m going to bed. Good luck with class.” And with a click of his bedroom door, Eliot was gone. 

It was a week before Quentin saw him again. 

Thanks to years of experience, Quentin knew when he was being avoided. If he hadn’t been such a shit, maybe Eliot would still be speaking to him. But Quentin just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Stupid, stupid man that he was. 

_Jesus, why couldn’t he just act like a person._

“Where have you been?” Q ventured to ask when Eliot finally reappeared in the apartment. It had been uncomfortably quiet in his absence, and Quentin had really missed the time when they were, you know, actually talking to one another. 

“I’ve been at Mike’s. I’m just stopping by to pick up some laundry.” Eliot said with a hum as he walked into his room. The sound of hangers releasing clothes emanated from within. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, um, I was just wondering.” Quentin yelled from the living room, “We haven’t - well, I just haven’t seen you.” 

Eliot poked his head out, “Missing me in my absence, Coldwater?” then ducked back into the room, followed by more shuffling.

Q swallowed thickly, feeling a flush crawl up his neck. It was true. He had missed Eliot. He’d felt horrible about how things had ended when he last saw him, but Eliot seemed to have gotten over it. Walking over to Eliot’s room, he leaned in the doorway, trying --and failing-- to appear nonchalant. Eliot was turned away from the door, folding laundry and placing it in a suitcase. 

Q’s heart fell at the sight of it all. 

“I cleaned,” He told the back of Eliot’s head. 

“Wow. Thank you, Quentin. _Gold star._ ” he replied curtly. Quentin saw a flash of the silk robe disappear into the suitcase. 

Okay, so maybe Eliot wasn’t as over everything as he thought. 

“Look, I’m sorry I was a dick.” Q shrugged, “It’s just Margo had told me all this shit about Mike, and-”

“Well, Margo never liked him because she didn’t give him a chance.” Eliot snapped, “Mike is a really decent guy and my _boyfriend._ And, besides, she-” 

“But what about everything _you_ told me?” 

Eliot sighed, “I was mad, but that’s all water under the bridge now. Like I said, we made up.” 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea going headfirst into this.” Quentin said, “It’s been a week, and it’s like you’re already moving in with him or something.” 

“Surprise, surprise. High and mighty Quentin Coldwater is passing judgment.” He zipped the suitcase closed, pushing past Q, “If this is your attempt at an apology, you’re shit at it.” 

And with that, Eliot was gone again. 

\---

 _Stupid Quentin and his stupid floppy hair and stupid fucking big brown eyes_ , Eliot thought to himself as he stomped down the stairs toward the street. _Why would anyone with the social skills of a gnat be so personally invested in his goddamn business? They were just roommates, so why all the hangups? Anyway, he was happy with Mike. Why were people always calling that into question? Yes, he was a dick for leaving Eliot hanging. But he was different now. Honestly, it was Eliot’s fault for ruining it in the first place by suggesting Mike would ever cheat on him._

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Mike asked when he saw him exit the apartment building. He was always so concerned with Eliot’s well-being, it was darling. Why he had ever been angry with Mike was a mystery.

“Nothing. Just issues with my roommate.” Eliot huffed, “He’s got his head up his ass, and I have to suffer for it.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Mike said, pushing a curl away from Eliot’s forehead. He must have looked like a complete mess.

“Yeah, like I said, it’s nothing.” 

“You want to talk about it?” Mike asked.

And, yeah, Eliot actually did. 

“Is it okay if I vent?” He asked. 

“Vent away,” Mike said, holding Eliot’s hand. 

“It’s just, Q is such a judgemental little asshole sometimes. And I’ve never met anyone nearly as filthy. He has to weigh in on _everything._ ” Eliot sighed, “And if he could just pick up his shit…”

“I’m sorry, but this guy sounds like a loser.” Mike told him, “And you sound overworked.” 

“He isn’t a loser. Just kind of a disaster.” Eliot admitted, “He’s got these fucked up brain chemicals, that make him hate himself. It hurts to watch him go through it. But damn, the _piles’ Mike_. If you just saw the trail of shit, he leaves... Guh. It’s a good thing he’s so pretty. He has these eyes-”

“You poor thing.” Mike said, cutting him off, “Come on, let’s go home, and I’ll make you dinner.” 

Eliot didn’t deserve Mike McCormick. 

\---

Quentin had been alone for too long. It had been three weeks of isolation, three weeks without Eliot. And with things having been left the way they were, a spiral was inevitable. He was trying his best, but going to class was becoming increasingly difficult: teaching, eating, and, well, _everything else._ He had been texting Eliot but never received a response. As a result, Quentin’s depression and anxiety had gone full-tilt, leaving him wondering if he should check himself in somewhere. He made a vain attempt to text Eliot once again:

**Me:** I’m going to my dad’s house for a few days. 

**Me:** Just thought you should know.

 **Me:** Eliot, please answer.

After making arrangements, Quentin just tried to make it through his classes and work. But by the end of the day, he found himself so exhausted that the thought of making the trek to Midtown Mental Health Clinic seemed an impossible thing. Curling himself into a tight ball under his covers, Quentin lay in bed, wishing for sleep that would most likely never come. 

Hours later, Quentin heard the door unlock. Eliot must have finally come home, but Q was still mad for being abandoned, not _that Eliot knew that._ Instead of going out to see him and _maybe apologizing for being such a piece of shit,_ he pouted in his room like a goddamn child. Through the wall, he could hear scuffling _._

“You used to live here?” an unfamiliar voice rang out. 

_Oh shit. They were being robbed._

Quentin began to panic, looking around his room for some heavy object to defend himself against the would-be invaders. 

“Yeah, but it’s all ours tonight. Eliot’s roommate is at his dad’s or something.” the other voice replied. 

“Mike, you know I don’t like it when you bring him up.”

_Mike? What the fuck was going on?_

“Sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.” 

“I thought you were going to leave him.” 

“Soon, soon, I promise.” Mike cooed, causing Quentin’s stomach to twist with anxiety. How long had he been sneaking people into their apartment? Knowing something, _fucking anything_ , needed to be done, Q quietly snuck out of his room. Sure enough, Mike and some guy were making-out on Eliot’s couch. Quentin whipped out his phone and took a few pictures for evidence. Then, being either very brave or very stupid…

“Hey, Mike,” Q said cooly.

Mike, reeled to face Q, a look of panic flashed across his face, “Oh, uh, hey Quincy.” 

“It’s Quentin.” 

“Right, right.” Mike said, clearly trying to get his bearings, “I was, uh, just picking up some stuff for Eliot.” 

“Look, cut the shit. I’ve got pictures.” Quentin told him, growing braver by the minute. “I don’t want to show them to him, but I will if you don’t tell him the truth.” 

Mike glared up at him, but then gave him a charming smile, “Hey, we can-”

“No.” Q cut him off, “You need to tell him, or I will.” 

“Awful big talk for a loser with a fucked up brain.” Mike retorted. 

Quentin stumbled, “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Mike said smugly, “Eliot told me _all_ about you.” 

Quentin’s head began to swim, but he couldn’t focus on that now. So, with the last dredges of his waning confidence, he forged ahead. If this was going to get done, he had to maintain his resolve. “Go, now. Or I’m calling the cops.” Q said, opening the front door.

“...Fine, whatever.” Mike huffed as he and the other guy walked out.

“And give him your fucking key back.” He added before slamming the door in Mike’s face.

With the two men gone, Quentin locked the door and crumpled onto the floor in a heap. Overwhelmed and exhausted, he began to cry. 

Mike McCormick didn’t deserve Eliot. 

\---

_“We can work this out.” Mike said, “I didn’t mean to, Babe. It’s just-”_

_“How long?”_

_“It was just a one-time thing, I promise.”_

_“What about before?”_

_“Before?”_

_“Fuck, Mike. Yes,_ before _. When I asked you if you were fucking cheating on me!”_

_When Mike said nothing, Eliot had his answer._

_“This is all Quentin’s fault, El. He just- he doesn’t want you to be happy. He wants you to wait on him hand and foot like before. “_

_“How would Quentin know?”_

_Again, Mike was at a fucking loss for words, the bastard._

_“He fucking caught you!” Eliot seethed, “Shit. That’s why you’re coming clean with all this. He’s got something on you.”_

_“No, he- think about it, El, he can’t take care of himself.” Mike pleaded, “He’s just a loser.”_

_“He’s not a loser.”_

_“Babe, come on. We can work this out.”_

_“Goodbye, Mike.” Eliot said, grabbing his suitcase, “You’re a piece of shit.”_

Eliot was such an idiot. He was nothing but a naive sucker who couldn’t see the world for what it actually was; a cesspit. It was all his fault for falling head over heels for human trash. And why wouldn’t he? Eliot was a dumpster fire of a person, no wonder Mike had gotten away with it for who knows how long. The only way he would have was because Eliot was too stupid to catch on. Too much of a fuck up to notice. Margo had been right, hell, _Quentin_ had been right. The only person who hadn’t gotten what a bastard Mike really was, was Eliot. 

_God, he was such a fucking moron._

So, tail between his legs, Eliot had slinked off to the apartment to get very, very drunk.

\---

Having had time to process the events of the night before, Quentin decided he was furious with Eliot. What Mike had said, what _Eliot had told Mike_ , had had time to fester. He had tried to focus on work and classes, just tried to get through the day, but the voice in his head kept screaming at him, _Eliot thinks you’re a loser with a broken brain._ By the time he boarded the subway home, Q was a maelstrom of self and outward hatred. When he walked through the door of the apartment, Eliot was drunk on the couch. On the coffee table was an ashtray full of cigarette butts, surrounded by empty wine bottles

“You told Mike I was a loser.” He said, skipping all pretext.

Eliot looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and miserable. “I n’ ver said that.” 

“With a fucked up brain.”

“I may’ve said that.” Eliot gestured vaguely at him, “I was just venting.” 

“Venting? You told him shit- you had no right, Eliot.” 

“’M’ sorry.” 

Eliot tried to stand up and immediately fell back into the couch, letting out a sound that was half-way between a snort and a sob. 

“I broke up wi’him,” he mumbled, “If that make s’it any better.” 

Quentin suddenly realized what a dick he was being. This wasn’t about him. Eliot had been through Hell in the last twelve hours, and Q needed to be there for his friend. 

“Okay.”

“‘Kay, what?” 

Quentin walked into the kitchen and grabbed two more bottles of wine from the cabinet. “I’m playing catch up.” He said, uncorking the bottles. 

Two hours and...fuck, _all_ the bottles of wine later, Quentin was the drunkest he’d been in his life. 

“Mike was such a _bastard_ .” Eliot hiccuped, “D’you know he was the reason I quit my sami-somi-soma...wine tasting courses? Said it was a _pipe dream_.” 

“ _Wha?_ That’s _bullshit.”_ Q gasped, “The ba _*urp*_ astard _.”_

“‘M such a moron.” Eliot moaned, “Whhhy, did I take’m back? He was a _bastard.”_

“You’re not a _moron_ ” Quentin rolled his eyes. _Fuck was he drunk._ “You’re, like, the most charming. Like, so*hic*ooo charming. I can’t’ even _believe_ it sumtimes.” 

“I can be sharming an’ a moron, Q.” Eliot said gloomily.

“No, no, no, you can’t. It’s an either/or situation, *pfffft*” Q gave a loud snort, “like Kierkegaard.” 

“Whozzat?” Eliot asked.

“Danish philosophizer.” 

“Wha’d he philosophize?’

“Hedonism versus ethical life.” 

“I’ll take the hedonism, please.” Eliot balked and fell off the couch. 

Eliot laughed joyously from the floor as if falling to the ground were comedic gold. Quentin grinned, sliding off the couch to close the space between them. He turned to his thoroughly inebriated friend. Eliot was so dear to him, sometimes he couldn’t even stand it. 

“Did you know, yer face is, like, seventy percent dimples when you smile?” Eliot mused, giving him a charmingly drunken grin. 

Quentin suddenly realized he was so close to Eliot he could feel his breath, the tannic smell of wine filling his senses. Eliot was so fucking gorgeous…

He couldn’t stand it anymore. 

Quentin surged up and kissed Eliot, tasting cigarettes and the slight tang of grapes and stone-fruit. When he pulled away, Eliot was gaping at him. 

_Shit._

For a split-second, Quentin worried he ruined everything, it wouldn’t be the first time. But before his brain could go into overdrive, Eliot surprised him, leaning in to kiss him back. Quentin melted into it as Eliot worked his lips open with his tongue. It was elegant and divine, the mirror image of Eliot Waugh. Just like Q had fantasized a hundred times since move-in day. He had waited so long for this moment. 

“God, Q, you taste so good,” Eliot whispered. 

“Jesus, El.” Quentin moaned. 

\---

The next morning, Eliot woke up so hungover he could barely breathe. His head, _Christ_ , he couldn’t even describe how much to hurt. The rest of his body wasn’t much better, he vaguely remembered falling off the couch and…

Eliot shot straight up. Terror washed over him as he came to the slow realization that he was in Q’s bed and not his own. He looked over, Quentin was asleep next to him, curled up with his hair splayed out against the pillow. The night before crashed over Eliot like a wave, flashes of kissing, Q taking him in his mouth, the rush of euphoria as his cock hit the back of Q’s throat, the white blinding heat as he came, all while he stroked Quentin, who quickly followed him over the edge. 

Eliot’s chest went tight, gripped in the throes of sheer panic. 

_He had fucked everything up._

“Hey,” Quentin said sleepily. 

_Fuck._

“Oh, hey,” Eliot replied, getting out of bed. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Back to my room, I need to get dressed.”

“Oh...okay,” Q said, hurt evident in his voice.

_God, he was such a coward._

In the safety of his room, Eliot began to freak out. He had fucked up, he had fucked up, he had fucked up. All because he couldn’t keep his shit in check. Now, Q would leave just like MIke and would _definitely_ never be talking to him again. There was a knock on the door. Eliot sighed, he’d have to face Q sometime, might as well be now. Gathering his tattered resolve, Eliot opened the door.

“Hey, about last night…” Q started.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Eliot quipped, despite dying inside. 

“Secret? What are you- Eliot, you know I’m not straight, right?” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Yeah, I’m bi.” Q said earnestly, “And I was hoping, well, it’s like, uh…”

“Let’s not overthink this.” Eliot interrupted, “We were just drunk and had some fun. It’s nothing, really.” 

“Nothing? But, I-” Q trailed off. 

Quentin looked so hurt that Eliot wanted to take it all back. He wanted to explain that he was afraid of another Mike situation, fearful that he would break Quentin. That he was a human dumpster fire, and, ultimately, didn’t deserve someone like Quentin Coldwater. So, as much as it hurt, he would have to shut this down, for Q’s own good. 

“Honestly it’s fine,” Eliot assured him, “I really need to sleep off this hangover before work.” 

“Okay,” Quentin mumbled before shuffling out of the room, shattering Eliot’s heart. 

When Eliot woke up that evening, Q was gone. It was book club night, so he knew that Quentin wouldn’t be home before he left for work. Which was for the best, as fucked up as that was. He had to keep his shit together, or he would fall apart entirely, and under no circumstances would he allow that to happen. 

However, Bambi seemed to have other plans. A few hours into his shift, his phone began to blow up:

**Bambi:** What did you do to Quentin? 

**Me:** I fucked up

 **Bambi:** He’s a miserable wreck. You need to talk to him. 

**Me:** I can’t 

**Bambi:** Get your head out of your twat and fix this.

Eliot wanted to protest. Wanted to tell Bambi how complicated things were now. Really lay into the details of how massively fucked up everything was. But Margo had spoken, and he knew she had a talent for getting in the final word. 

When the bar closed, it was both too late and too early for any sort of attempt at a conversation with Quentin. During the entirety of his shift, Eliot had wracked his brain over what he would finally say when he got home,-- _not that Q would even still be up_ \-- and he hadn’t gotten past ‘I’m sorry’. He had never been good about this sort of shit. 

Walking into the apartment, Eliot was alarmed to find that, not only was Quentin awake, but he was sitting in the living room. The boy looked as miserable as Eliot felt. What a pair they were. Unsurprising and completely understandable, Q didn’t look up at him from his place on the couch. 

“You’re awake,” Eliot said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Q replied, still not looking at him. 

“Look, about this morning, or, yesterday morning.” Eliot stumbled, he always was shit at telling what day it was post-work, “Anyway, about being a dick to you.” 

“You were a dick?” Q said sarcastically, “I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

Every instinct told Eliot to just shut down. That it wasn’t even worth trying to fix because he would just fuck it up again. But he owed Quentin the truth, no matter the outcome. 

“I lied to you, Q.” 

“What?” Quentin sat up and looked at Eliot. “Y-you lied?”

“Quentin,” Eliot sighed, “I’m a mess. I shut you down yesterday because I thought that I’d fucked everything up. I was afraid and...well, when I’m afraid, I run away.” 

“I see.” 

“I’m sorry.” Eliot said sincerely, “That night, it wasn’t nothing. I’m so sorry I said that.” 

“Do you want to,” Quentin shrugged, “I dunno, try again?” 

“Like, what? More astonishingly, fantastic sex?”

“No, I mean, yes, but, uh,” Q stammered, “maybe start out by, you know, spending the day together?” 

“What about your classes?”

“Well, uh, they’re pretty used to me not showing up, so…”

Part of Eliot knew that he could never be good enough, not the way Q was. But he could be brave.

“I’d like that,” Eliot said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked this story, please check out my on-going Queliot novella, Trouble Will Find Me!


End file.
